I once had sex with a woman in her late twenties who had Botoxed her forehead. Her forehead was fine as it was -- smooth, no wrinkles -- but High Fashion had inevitably directed her to this procedure, unnecessary as it was.
High Fashion had also directed her to her black high heels, but that was fine with me because I like when a woman wears high heels in bed during certain situations and contexts. Otherwise naked is one of those contexts.
Her Botox look was unnerving: we would have conversations, and her expressions never changed. Concern? Smooth unmoving forehead. Delight? Smooth unmoving forehead. Surprise? Sadness? Smooth unmoving forehead. Occasionally a nod for emphasis sign-posted what she was feeling.
Anyway, after she sucked my cock I would ejaculate on her face and she wouldn't even flinch: unmoving forehead, smooth except for the semen.
So that was her.
I am Laslo.
ADDED:
I must admit to being somewhat saddened by the harsh responses to Ms. Cyrus -- especially from the women.
Do they not remember their blossoming years? The confusion, the opportunities, the burgeoning new sexual power they now wielded over men?
The evenings spent at the Mall in short colorful skirts, desperately hoping an older male would buy them some cheap necklace and then take them in his Camaro back to his studio apartment and drink cheap beer?
Do they not remember waking up in a stranger's van and not being able to find their clothing?
Do they not nod knowingly at those first feelings of realization that there were indeed Bad Men out there, and some of these Bad Men were friends of their fathers?
The leering looks, the offers of 'free' ice cream?
Like I said: saddened.
I am Laslo.
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